


Absolute

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 19:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10170350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Prince Eönwë’s favourite musician pays him a visit.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ephers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephers/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for ephers’ “maglor/eonwe [...] long-term mutual adoration” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/158134298300/fic-request-i-really-miss-your-magloreonwe-ok-i). This is a semi-modernish/fantasy/non-realistic-actually AU.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Eönwë hardly notices when the door opens; the servants come and go as they will. But then the butler clears his throat, and Eönwë lifts his head, the book still open in his lap, ready to be resumed as soon as he’s confirmed whatever banal order is to be checked with him now. But the butler announces as stiffly as ever, “Master Maglor is here, Your Highness. Shall I have the sitting room prepared?”

Eönwë blinks once and has to replay the moment in his head to be sure he’s heard correctly. Three seconds later than is proper, he finally answers, “No, I will receive him here.” The library, after all, is a more intimate setting. It isn’t until the butler’s nodded and retreated that it occurs to him formality may have been a better choice. It is, after all, what Lord Fëanor would have expected. 

Hopefully, Maglor has not grown as much into his father as some of his brothers. Eönwë still looks suddenly about the grand room, lest his obsession might show—if there is any album to be left out of place due to constant use, it will be one of Maglor’s.

There’s no time to hide his admiration. The butler returns a minute later with Maglor at his heels, and Eönwë finds himself falling wordlessly back to the couch, the book in his hands landing, forgotten, on a cushion beside him. The butler gestures to his guest, then retreats again per Eönwë’s standing orders—he doesn’t usually wish to be waited on hand and foot.

Now he wishes he were, if only not to be alone. Perhaps with an audience he would be better able to uphold his pretense of royalty, instead of the dumbfounded stare he’s sure he’s adopted. He knows, of course, what Maglor looks like. He’s recorded and re-watched every concert a dozen times, has ever album and every magazine, and has never forgotten a single memory. But none of it can compare to seeing Maglor in the flesh, fully grown and aged before him. Maglor strides forward until he’s only an arm’s length away, then drops gracefully to one knee in a too-formal bow.

His lavender-blue robes are striking on him, synched tightly around his slender waist and parting for silver leggings and dark boots, his black hair cascading smoothly down his supple shoulders, his spotless complexion the perfect balance of soft curves and chiseled lines. He places his hand atop his heart, and all Eönwë can do is eye each long finger in turn, skilled beyond the Gods at every craft they touch.

Maglor breathes, “Your Highness.” Eönwë’s chest tightens. Recordings of that nightingale voice simply don’t do it justice. 

Eönwë returns only, “Maglor.” It doesn’t seem proper for a prince to greet anyone with such reverence, but he can’t restrain it. He sees the subtle smile that plays across Maglor’s gentle lips, and then Maglor finally lifts his gaze, and Eönwë murmurs around that fascination, “Please, rise.”

Maglor obeys as artfully as ever. He stands tall again, and Eönwë would match it, if he trusted his knees to hold him. Instead, he stays perched atop his couch and waits for some explanation of this marvel. Maglor spares no looks about the room, no idle chat nor questions as to the other residence of the castle, merely starts: “Forgive me if I intrude, Your Highness, but I had heard that my prince is a fan of my music, and was quite pleased to find myself instantly emitted when I arrived at the gates.”

The only surprise should be Eönwë’s. He answers, “For all my father’s disagreements with yours, the sons of Lord Fëanor will always be welcome here.” Maglor graces Eönwë with another thin smile, but there’s a hint of sadness in this one, as though he doesn’t quite believe it. Eönwë leaves the subject where it is—he’s only a herald, and it isn’t yet his job to pass judgment. For this one lord in particular, he doesn’t think he ever could. 

Maglor is the one to murmur, “None have tried in years.” His tone is quiet but powerful. Eönwë finally rises for it, determined to put them on more even footing. 

He searches for the right thing to say—small talk, perhaps, or inquiries as to Maglor’s health, his family, his business—but all that comes out is a sighed: “How you have blossomed in that time.” The clouds dissipate from Maglor’s handsome face. It encourages Eönwë to admit, “I remember when you were young and just learning to hold the harp. And now... there is no musician in all the king’s realms of whom I am more proud.”

Maglor’s delicate cheeks stain a light pink, the smile stretching until it dimples his dark eyes. The beauty of it is breathtaking. If Eönwë could put that into words, he’d say that as well: it isn’t only music he admires Maglor for. 

Maglor glances demurely aside and asks, “In that case... could I have the honour of playing for my prince?”

Yes. Eönwë would like nothing more. But he admits, “His Majesty is still away on errand, and will not return for another month...”

Maglor’s eyes flicker up again, piercing Eönwë on the spot. “With all due respect, Your Highness, I had hoped only to play for you.”

Throat tight and dry, Eönwë grants, “Very well.” Maglor grins as though _he’s_ the one being blessed.

And it occurs to Eönwë then that he doesn’t carry anything _to_ play. The servants, of course, will have taken any luggage he had. But if he had enough to bother being taken, then...

Eönwë chances asking, “Will you stay in the meantime, perhaps?” When Maglor doesn’t immediately discount that, he pushes, “The rooms your father used to stay in are currently available. Or, if you prefer, the East Wing has a ballroom that should have suitable acoustics in which to practice...”

“And your rooms, Your Highness?” Maglor asks. Eönwë pauses at the sheer cheek, and Maglor quickly adds, “If it would not be too much of an imposition, that is, I would be most interested to see what has become of them. I remember them being quite grand, but of course, everything is larger in the eyes of youth...”

Eönwë can only say, “Certainly.” And, before any mistakes can be made and Maglor might head for the door to catch one of the servants posted outside, Eönwë amends, “I would be delighted to escort you there myself.”

Maglor, to Eönwë’s surprise and pleasure, turns to stand beside and slips both hands deftly around his arm, like a lady might do for a lord shortly before the dance floor. Eönwë says nothing of it, merely smiles and strolls for the south doors. He does nothing to reposition them. Maglor is, without a doubt, the most stunning creature he’s ever had on his arm. 

The walk to his quarters is a long one, and they spend it in silence, aside from the click-clack of their boots against the tile floors and the occasional bustle of servants weaving about them. Despite the many years, it’s still strangely comfortable, familiar—Maglor was, of all the little lords Eönwë ever met, the one he most connected with. He’s _enjoyed_ others, in a distant, ethereal sort of way, but none have shared Maglor’s quiet countenance, his willful integrity, and his absorbing talent. More than once along the way, Eönwë considers offering more praise, but such a position—idolizing a subject—is so far beyond his usual realm that he doesn’t quite know how to articulate it. So he simply basks in Maglor’s presence instead, until he’s reached his own doors, and throws them wide to invite Maglor in.

With a short hitch of breath, Maglor disentangles from his arm and drifts inside. Eönwë subtly shuts the doors again, then turns to watch Maglor eye one piece of splendor after another. It’s ostentatious, Eönwë knows, full of far more space and wealth than any one individual should need, but he does as his king bids, and his room came decorated. He doubts it’s changed much in the years since Maglor last stood here, barely into teenage years and dressed in a silken nightgown, having snuck in after dark to whisper new lyrics, but Maglor, now a fully grown _man_ of nearly equal repute, touches everything with new awe. He traces the gold leaves carved across Eönwë’s desk, weaves around a thick rug of different jewels, and comes at last to the floor-to-ceiling windows, blazing with the fresh rays of the mid-morning sun. Silhouetted by it, Maglor looks like a deity out of a dream. Finally, he turns back to his host and sighs, “I remember playing in the gardens below, and seeing you watch from this very window.”

Eönwë moves to take a seat on his four-poster bed and replies, “I still cherish those memories.” Every one. Every song. “The world is lucky to hear what I took for granted back then.”

“And the world is lucky to have such a wise and fair line to rule it,” Maglor counters. He crosses his arms idly about his chest, spares one last glance for the window, and then turns again to stroll across the polished floor. “As much as I have delighted in my success over the years, I admit I have grown weary of touring. I long for somewhere to settle down, and it has always been a comfort to know that all my options are good ones, for my king has kept these lands at peace, and the prince that follows is just as honourable.”

Eönwë doesn’t know if he’s ever been paid a bigger complement in his life. He rarely thinks of his own rule, for his king is the greatest that’s ever been, and he considers himself lucky to merely serve that reign. Only a meter away, Maglor murmurs, “Though I have not always been bold enough to visit, I have always paid attention to all that my prince has done, and I have thoroughly admired all of it.”

It doesn’t seem right that Maglor could pine for Eönwë the way Eönwë has pined for him, but that’s what Maglor’s words seem to say, and then Maglor has reached the edge of the bed. He doesn’t stop, but lifts onto the mattress, right up into Eönwë’s lap, and Eönwë’s lips part in surprise, hands darting to catch Maglor’s hips, cheeks flushing at the rush of it. Maglor’s fingers curl around Eönwë’s shoulders, steadying himself, and he leans in to purr close, “Perhaps, if your highness would permit it, I could stay here, and pay for my accommodations in song?”

Eönwë is transfixed. He can barely breathe. He’s spent all his life in regal reservation, and he has no precedent for such wanton displays. Perhaps he should’ve known a son of Fëanor would once again disrupt the status quo. Yet he has absolutely no desire to push Maglor away.

He eventually manages to say, “You need not pay in anything.”

Maglor brushes his lips across Eönwë’s. Sheer electricity runs through him, fire and a fierce _want_ beyond Eönwë’s understanding. Maglor whispers, “Not even in that?”

Eönwë doesn’t know what to say.

So he gives in to what he wants to _do_ and rolls Maglor suddenly onto the mattress, now intent on hearing a different sort of song.


End file.
